


Speak in Tongues

by bankrobbery



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: First Time, Fuck Or Die, Getting Together, M/M, Magic Made Them Do It, Sex Magic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-05
Updated: 2020-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:27:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23027788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bankrobbery/pseuds/bankrobbery
Summary: “I'm going to let you up,” Geralt says, and his breathing is ragged, his skin cold and clammy against Jaskier's cheek, “and you're going to run.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 28
Kudos: 1097





	Speak in Tongues

**Author's Note:**

> you ever feel like you just write the same tropes over and over again for every fandom and hope nobody notices? I obviously have a problem. save yourself. 

The succubus gets five fingernails into the soft curve of Geralt’s throat, puncture wounds oozing blood around her fingers, before her head comes off with a single swipe from his silver sword. It rolls onto the ground next to Geralt’s feet and the body stiffens and drops, bloody fingernails going along with it, and any celebration that should be had is cut off prematurely by the way Geralt stumbles forward after that, as though disorientated. 

Jaskier has been around long enough to know the tell-tale signs of when things are about to go tits up - has composed ballads describing such - and this is as glaringly perfect an example as he’s seen. Nothing good ever comes from the sweep of confusion across Geralt’s face, as though there is something prickling through his skin that he’s never felt before; nothing good ever comes from Geralt not being the one in control of their situation.

There’s always a chance it’s something in the air, that it’s nothing at all, but that chance is slim. The marks on Geralt’s neck are pronounced on his pallid skin, angry and red and agitated in a way that does not bode well for either of them, and Jaskier's fears are confirmed when Geralt stumbles forward again and clasps one gloved hand over the wound on his throat. Another foot forward ends with Geralt in the dirt, catching himself on one knee and with one palm pressed against the ground, and Jaskier is moving towards him before his common sense has had a chance to catch up to what’s going on. 

“Don't,” Geralt grits out through clenched teeth, and Jaskier stops dead in his tracks. Still on the ground, Geralt inhales shakily, already breaking out into a cold sweat. 

“Right, of course, because you’re obviously fine,” Jaskier says, and when Geralt's eyes roll to look at him they're exasperated, and they're also colorless and pale – like his face. “No need for concern. You’re just convulsing on the ground for shits and giggles.”

He’s not quite convulsing yet, but he does look as though he suffers from a fever - delirious and delusional. He’s not shaking, but he’s almost rocking back and forth on his heel, almost like he’s trying to combat whatever surprise the succubus left behind for him through sheer force of stubborn will. Which, honestly, if anyone could get through curses and diseases through blind bullheadedness it would be Geralt of Rivia, but Jaskier has his doubts about the validity of it in this specific scenario. Geralt’s hands are both curled at his own forearms now, arms crossed over his chest, and he is the very image of what Jaskier would describe as ‘fucked.’

“This is the part where you tell me what she’s done to you and I go grab one of your special potions and save the day,” Jaskier reminds him, as though writhing on the ground is their preferred method of combating this sort of thing. “Some herb in the forest I need to pick? Some secret incantation? I’m all ears, Geralt.”

“Nothing for it,” Geralt manages, still through his teeth. He should probably move away from the headless corpse still at his feet - there is probably something to be said about the proximity of curses and spells in relation to their casters - but he doesn’t look as though he’s in any position to move anywhere. There’s a weird tension in the air that Jaskier can’t describe, can’t really pinpoint, but it feels mildly dangerous and it keeps his feet planted firmly on the ground.

“When you say ‘nothing for it,’ you never mean ‘nothing for it’,” Jaskier reasons. “You always mean ‘Jaskier, I don’t want to talk about this so fuck off.’ Which is unhelpful, by the way. You might be dying. You _look_ like you’re dying-”

Geralt inhales shakily again and does move slowly back onto his feet. Every motion seems arduous and laborious, as though he’s attempting to move with some monstrous weight upon his shoulders, but he does get back up all the same. He shuffles forward several paces, boots sliding through the dirt as though made of lead, and he manages only a short distance before his legs buckle underneath him and he ends up back in the dirt on his knees. 

‘ _Fuck this,_ ’ Jaskier thinks, and in one quick stride is at Geralt’s side. He curls his fingers into Geralt’s jerkin, takes a deep breath, and then he’s backing up in tiny steps - tiny, quick steps - dragging all six feet of Geralt’s heavy, dead weight back and away from the still oozing corpse of the succubus.

Jaskier has often prided himself on his ability to think on his feet - it is, after all, what has kept him alive thus far. However he starts to reconsider this idea very quickly. Maybe Geralt knows how to fix this and maybe he doesn’t, but he was probably right when he warned Jaskier away from him at the beginning. They are three feet from the corpse when Geralt’s body twists with renewed strength, like he hadn’t been suffering from a debilitating curse seconds ago, like his body is entirely within his own control. One of his hands encircles Jaskier's left wrist, where it is still curled around his jerkin, and everything turns immediately upside down. 

Jaskier hits the ground so hard his teeth clash, the air shoved immediately out of his lungs, and when he tries to inhale it’s naught but dust and dryness in his throat. There is a heavy weight on him that is pinning him down and he thinks, wildly, briefly, that maybe this is the time he should have listened and kept his hands to himself. 

Geralt is strangely quiet, strangely still, above him - and he’s breathing loud enough that Jaskier can hear it even over his own breath. Jaskier's knees ache from the impact with the ground, tiny pebbles and twigs grinding into the palms of his hands, and every inhale tastes like dirt and leaves, and something rancid. There is something foreign in the air around them that he can taste when he licks his lips and it makes him lightheaded. 

‘ _Oh,_ ’ Jaskier realizes, far too late. ‘ _It’s that kind of curse.’_

He won’t lie and say he’s never imagined Geralt’s weight pinning him against the ground like this. He’s imagined it on more than one occasion, despite the obvious dangers therein, but this is something else altogether. Geralt is already hard and straining, his clothed cock pressing against the curve of Jaskier’s ass, and Jaskier’s heart wastes no time in lodging itself directly into his own throat. The strength in the arms holding him feels impossible, like it might snap him in half given the opportunity, and it is a stark contrast to the careful breathing, the contained fury in the mouth exhaling hot near his ear. 

“I'm going to let you up,” Geralt says, and his breathing is ragged, his skin cold and clammy against Jaskier's cheek, “and you're going to run.”

It's not easy to move, but it's easier than speaking, and Jaskier manages to nod his head. There is dirt in his hair, smeared against the side of his face from where it's been pressed against the ground, and his heart is pounding in his chest so loudly he can hear it like a drum in his ears. There is static in the back of his head that wasn't there before, that is maybe from having the wind knocked out of him, but it's difficult to focus through; it's difficult to focus on anything else with Geralt so close. Jaskier wants nothing more than to press back against his weight, to buck against him and damn the consequences, but he curls his hands into fists until his fingernails bite into his palms and tries to breathe.

Geralt jerks away from him, up and off of him, and the pressure is gone – and Jaskier scrambles to his knees, to get out of the dirt. He has every intention of doing whatever it takes to help Geralt - to at least get him out of the woods and back to Roach, or at least away from the stinking corpse of the succubus - and running away is not even a glimmer in his mind. He’s got a lot of plans, but none of them take into account the weird constriction in his chest that does not dissipate in the slightest when Geralt moves away from him. He’s not prepared for the tingling in his hands and fingers, in his bones and underneath his skin. The air is dry, and hot, and feels as though it burns to ash before it even makes it to his throat. He can’t breathe - he is burning up from the inside out.

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt hisses, like a reminder, like a warning, but it’s a little too late for that. The gravel of his voice sends shivers down Jaskier’s spine to curl in his toes and he doesn’t run.

Jaskier doesn’t run. He slides forward, to the crunch of leaves under his knees, and Geralt's skin is cool underneath his hands, when Jaskier catches his jaw. Geralt inhales, and his eyes are colorless and strange, and he looks like he might try to back away again, but Jaskier kisses him first.

Everything is still for a moment. Jaskier has no idea what has possessed him, but his body is only half under his control, and the half-control he has is tenuous at best. Geralt's mouth is exhilarating underneath his own and it makes breathing easier, makes the burning in his skin lessen. Then hands curl around Jaskier's wrists – including the one on his jaw – and the grip is tight, with the dig of fingers into his skin, and the roughness of it shoots like sparks up his spine. It feels like Geralt might break his wrists, fingernails digging into the bones there, and Jaskier can't help the surprised gasp he breathes into Geralt's mouth – because, _fuck_. Geralt breathes again, inhales again, and then his mouth is pressing back – demanding, urgent, and Jaskier tries to ignore the strangeness in the back of his mind and instead opens his mouth to the wet slide of a tongue pressing against his lips.

It is another groan from Jaskier – involuntary – that makes Geralt's mouth stutter, and stop, against his own. There's a little bit of control there, like Geralt still has some say in what his body is doing, but it's stretched thin and it's brittle, and it's definitely being tested.

“You fucking idiot,” Geralt breathes, voice shaking, and he is caught somewhere between fury and, and something else, something that looks a lot like fear. “Do you have any idea- I don’t want to hurt you, Jaskier. _”_

“It’s all right - I’m all right,” Jaskier says, and he does mean it, mostly. He feels disorientated, but it could have everything to do with the breathless reminder of Geralt's mouth on his own, his hands burning through his skin like a brand. “Well I’m mostly all right. I was trying to _help_ -”

“I don't want your help,” Geralt hisses, and he's still close enough that Jaskier feels the words against his skin. “I want you to _get the hell out of here_.”

He expects to see the look on Geralt's face that says, quite clearly, that he thinks Jaskier is an idiot; he doesn't really expect it to make Geralt _angry_. He growls, and his grip on Jaskier tightens – and there's the pain again, the one that he thought had dissipated. It's strange though, because it does hurt, but it's just on the wrong side of being too painful and just on the right side of being incredibly good.

He realizes, sort of absently, that maybe he doesn't feel as normal as he thought he had. He thinks that maybe the fact that his breathing is more difficult has nothing to do with being thrown to the ground; he thinks that maybe the difficulty in breathing has more to do with the strange pressure in his chest that persists - is constricting, painful and suffocating, and he wonders if this is how Geralt feels. Geralt's hands on him feel like lightning on his skin and the burn of it is so good he almost can’t breathe around it. He wants Geralt’s hands everywhere and that’s not a new thought, but it’s the first time it’s seemed like a possible reality. 

“Jaskier,” Geralt says, and it's through clenched teeth, and it sounds a little like begging, a little desperate.

“Geralt,” Jaskier counters, because he can be just as stubborn, but his head is spinning. He swallows thickly, licks his lips. The fire underneath his skin hasn't lessened, is tight and hard to breathe through, and his heart is beating so loudly he can hear the pounding of it in his ears like a drum. He swallows again, even though his mouth is absurdly dry. “Geralt, _please._ ”

There is an exhale, and Geralt's grips lessens.

Mentally preparing himself is impossible, but he tries regardless. It doesn't make it any less disorientating when Geralt slowly uncurls himself from his own control, when he slides a hand to the back of Jaskier's neck and kisses him. It's different from when he was the one instigating this madness – way different, because Geralt kisses him like he wants him, like this is something he's been waiting for, and it's overwhelming. There's something raging beneath his skin that is a little different than what is happening to Jaskier, but maybe that's because he's got years of experience learning control and Jaskier scarcely knows the meaning of it.

He pushes his hands underneath the hem of Jaskier's shirt, pushes it up, over his head, and tosses it somewhere out of their way. The dusk-chilled air and cool ground feel obscenely good against Jaskier's burning skin – as does the cool slide of Geralt's fingers, dragging down his rib cage to catch at the leather of his belt. The buckle is loud – incriminating – in the quiet of the woods, but the sound of it feeds whatever is thrumming itself through Jaskier's blood.

The boiling in his skin makes it difficult to hear the quieter sound of the laces on his trousers being undone, but he feels the roughness of Geralt's hand sliding against his hipbones and he can’t focus on anything else. Hot, callused fingers curl against his already hard and leaking cock and his body writhes, involuntarily, closer, a moan crawling itself out of his throat and into the mouth against his own. He doesn't realize that he's clinging to Geralt, fingers curled against his shoulder, eyes closed and very nearly panting, until he does open his eyes and Geralt is staring at him, expression completely unreadable.

Jaskier knows his face is red – either because he's burning up alive or because he’s moaning like it’s his first day in the brothel – but he ignores it in favor of shifting, manipulating his hips just so, and making it possible for Geralt to grasp at the material on his thighs and pull his trousers halfway down his hips. It's too dry to be enough – even when Geralt spits in the palm of his hand – and the friction makes him hotter, but he doesn't want it to stop regardless. His thighs tense and shift, impossible to really move within the confines of his clothes, but it doesn't stop him from trying. 

For all of his impatience, for his violence and anger and aggression, Geralt's movements are all carefully restrained – like whatever is controlling him is just on the edge of seeping through. There are moments when his touch is too hard, grip too tight, and then there's a breath wherein it relaxes – like he's suddenly becoming aware of it – and maybe it's the wrong approach. Because fighting back against whatever this is feels a lot like his skin stretching thin, feels like being pulled apart at the seams, and Jaskier can't imagine that it's any better for Geralt.

“It's okay,” Jaskier says, when he finds his voice, when he has enough control to form words. There are a lot of stupid things he's done, a _lot_ of them, and maybe this is one of them, but it's also something he feels desperately like he needs to do. “You don't have to hold back. I can take it.”

Geralt kisses him again and it's a little different – something much closer to being chaste, even as crazy as that is with his hand still jacking him off – and he breathes in, slowly, and nods. He's too far gone to manage anything as difficult as words. Jaskier uses the pause to pull the witcher’s jerkin over his head, to feel as much of Geralt's cool skin against his burning hands as he can possibly manage. If this is the path they’re going to go down then he’s not going to be left wishing he’d been a more active participant, that’s for damned sure.

Everything would be easier if it were under different circumstances. There's dirt and dead leaves underneath them, and his own dry, burning skin. There’s a succubus corpse still stinking and oozing within arm’s reach. Everything would be better under different circumstances, but under different circumstances this wouldn't even be happening. 

Jaskier manages to writhe out of the rest of his trousers, to move them from where they're restricting his legs, and that's as far as he manages to get before Geralt takes over again. He pulls them closer, until they're crushed together amidst twigs and dirt, and his own trousers are gone – and it's just skin, Geralt's chilled against his own burning, and Jaskier's breath stutters in his throat. He works one of his legs over Geralt's hip, because the angle is better, because it seems like the thing to do, and Geralt scrapes his teeth down Jaskier's neck all the way to the base of his throat. 

There are hands – someone's hands – sliding over every bend and curve of Jaskier's body. They're rough and calloused and the fingernails are sharp, pulling almost too hard against skin. Briefly Jaskier wonders how this is supposed to help whatever weird sex curse they’re under, because it feels like it's making it worse, like he won't be able to breathe until Geralt is doing more, anything more. He arches himself into Geralt's hands, into the pads of his fingers, and bares his throat to the searching teeth.

The ground is blessedly cool against his bare knees where he's kneeling into it, hard dirt grinding into his skin. Geralt's hands are on his hips, impossibly strong, his thumbs pressing into the curve of the bones there, and his knees nudge Jaskier's own out of the way. There's another brief glimpse of realization Jaskier has then, wherein he knows he's going to be a wreck at the end of this – bruised and dirty, sore and looking a mess – and he can’t even begin to find it in himself to give a damn. 

There is breath at his back, a hand smoothing over the curve of his ass, and he manages to say, “What are you-” before he is abruptly interrupted by Geralt spreading his ass cheeks open with his fingers and, without warning, moving his mouth hot and open and wet right against him.

Jaskier very nearly yelps and instinctively twitches away from that searching tongue, but Geralt holds him securely in place. His legs had felt unsteady before, but now it is Geralt who is mostly keeping him upright, as his bones threaten to give out as every nerve in his body focuses on Geralt’s ministrations. There is the slightest rasp of stubble against his skin that burns in all the right ways, that sends bursts of pleasure right up his spine that make him shudder and gasp and twitch back against Geralt uncontrollably. 

It’s impossible to remain quiet as Geralt’s tongue moves further inside of him; he doesn’t realize he’s begging, near incoherent, until a finger slides into his crease and works its way in right into the loose ring of muscles. He stops thinking entirely at the first press of fingers inside him, spit-slick and sliding carefully in around Geralt’s still working tongue. It's difficult to feel the pain, the burn, because his body is out of his control and it's arching against Geralt's touch, against the heat of his fingers. He breathes in choked gasps, trying to allow his mind and his lungs to catch up with his body, and Geralt finally moves back up his back, leans over him and pushes, and pushes. They need time, far more time, but even if Geralt were capable of patience right now Jaskier's body ignores his own protests and presses back into the fingers curling inside of him.

There is moisture on his face, that could be sweat or could be tears, or could be both. He hopes Geralt doesn't remember this part later, the part where – even through the adrenaline and whatever that damned spell is pumping through his veins – there's still enough pain that Jaskier is having trouble ignoring it. There is no part left of him that has the ability to tell Geralt to stop – and there's maybe no part of Geralt that would be able to – so he digs his fingers into the dirt and breathes.

There is a hand on his thigh, and the feeling of those fingers leaving him, and he gasps into the cool air. He moans, low and desperate, and they're close enough that he can feel the chill of goosebumps it sends across Geralt's arms. Then the grip on his thigh tightens and he feels the slow, steady push of Geralt’s cock that makes him momentarily forget his own name. 

“Breathe,” Geralt manages to say, and Jaskier doesn't know when he stopped. Geralt presses his face into Jaskier's neck, his own breath heavy and labored, and Jaskier is certain that this ache, that is spreading over his entire body, is never going to go away. It spreads like fire, feeding off the burning in his skin, and he tightens his fingers against Geralt's arms until his knuckles turn white, and there's nothing he can do to make it stop. 

He breathes through it, breathes, and breathes, and gasps, and tries not to suffocate. His body trembles, out of his control, underneath every stutter of Geralt's hips, every push that is too much. He feels like he's choking – and he needs this, feels it thick like syrup in his veins, and his limbs and muscles are tingling, but it's all otherworldly and it feels nothing like normal. Everything pushes him closer, makes his skin feel smaller and smaller, like it's being stretched too far over his bones. He is making unintelligible, embarrassing sounds into the space between them, pained and needy and desperate, but they only seem to make Geralt breathe harder.

It feels a little like he's falling apart at the seams, crumbling and unable to hold himself together, and it's warm – and cold – and painful – and _amazing._ Geralt's fingers are curling bruises into his hips, his teeth leaving marks along his shoulder, and it's too much. It's good and it hurts in a way he can't quite describe when it all peels away, when he watches Geralt's composure and control slide away into messy little pieces in a way no one else has probably ever seen. It's that – it's the way Geralt clings to him, and moans against his throat, vulnerable and trusting – that is enough to make Jaskier let go.

One minute he's staring at the canopy of dead leaves over them, sparse limbs scattered out like spiderwebs in the sky, and then it's the back of his eyelids. It feels like falling, like tumbling, and he can't catch his breath through it – can't force his tongue to form words or sounds. It's just quiet, quiet and stark, and, for a very long minute, he is dizzy and numb and it feels – it feels good, but it also feels like he's been covered in a layer of parchment that someone has finally peeled away. It feels like the air on his skin, like the dirt on his back, and it feels like control, and reality, and it is surprisingly welcome.

Jaskier doesn't know how long he lays there, with the imprint of leaves and twigs pressing into his bare skin, but he knows when Geralt moves – because a heavy weight is gone from him, and he feels cold and very exposed. 

“I’ll have you know I’m taking this as a win,” Jaskier tells him, without moving from where he’s still lying on the ground. “Scowl all you want but we’re not dead and nobody is missing any appendages. Well, aside from our monstrous friend there.”

“Jaskier-”

Sitting up is one of the most painful things he's done all day. It makes him feel like he's a hundred years old, or like he's been thrown from a horse, and he is biting his lip so hard he is starting to taste blood. There are small, bloody half-fingerprints on his hips, from Geralt's hands – from his nails, where they had dug in so hard they had broken skin – and the smear of it is far more arousing than it has any right to be. His skin is peppered with angry red bruises that will turn purple with time, that are already darkening, and they're in the shape of fingers, and teeth, and he can't even see all of them. There are several places Geralt's hands and mouth have broken skin, but the contrast is that the marks Jaskier's own fingernails had dug into Geralt's biceps are already, slowly healing - an advantage that Jaskier does not possess. 

He does chance a look at Geralt then, but there's not any judgment on his face. He looks conflicted – looks borderline guilty, maybe even a little shameful. 

“Don’t give me that face,” Jaskier says, frowning. “Regret never looks good on anyone and I find it especially distasteful when it’s directed at me.”

“You mistake concern for regret.”

 _‘Oh_ ,’ Jaskier thinks again, while Geralt goes to retrieve the disembodied head of the succubus. He says, aloud, “Well, that’s different, I suppose. Although, in my defense, your range of emotions is stilted at best. Regret and concern and exasperation all look strikingly similar.”

There are a lot of things he expects, and a lot of things he doesn't. He doesn't expect Geralt to fish around the bushes and dirt for his clothes, and he definitely doesn't expect him to help him – carefully, easily, slowly – back into them. They are worse for wear, torn and dirty, but they're better than nothing, even if it doesn't exactly feel worth it to bend and twist himself back into them. 

Geralt pushes his shirt into his arms next, wadded up and as dirty as the rest of their things, and bends to kiss him like he doesn't need an excuse to do so.

“Not regret,” Geralt confirms and steps around him, severed head in tow, to lead their way back to Roach. 


End file.
